Monday, 29 June 2009

• the door

  The door is shade-less, it has no shade.

  No white, no black, no red, no grey.

  No light, no dark, no secret sparks,

  A door which leads into your heart.

  You hold the brush, you own the paint.

  You choose the way to slowly stain

  The door is waiting just until

  Your heart is ready to be killed

  If you have fear or doubt unknown,

  Those same little thoughts the door will own

  One day, you'll have to paint it all

  Once the last stroke of your brush now falls

  You'll breathe your last, look at last!

  What shade is your door? It stands aghast.

  What shade is your door? It's fading fast.

  What shade is that door when you walk past?

  • 3:20 AM
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